Café Froid
by drewbug
Summary: There's stomping boots and the tumbling of wood against wood, and the noises of animal life swirling into the house on the lips of the whispering wind. S1.


**Café Froid**

 **N. Clevenger (July 2015)**

 **Notes:** As if Will doesn't take enough abuse in s1, here's some that didn't happen. A meandering sickfic, a fill for the h/c bingo prompt _natural disaster_ and my first story for the fandom. Mostly just an excuse to force Will and Alana to spend some time alone together before everything came to light, before things were said. Set mid-way through s1 for character context.

For Beguile. I make no money, because they don't belong to me.

* * *

Alana presses the bell and listens to it echo throughout the house, hears the clicking of nails on hardwood as the dogs all rush to investigate. The pack of them pant audibly on the other side, but the door doesn't open. She shifts the strap of the bag from where it's digging into the crook of her elbow, wondering what to do. She doesn't want to ring the overly dramatic bell again.

So she knocks. Three raps together and an impulsive extra added after a hiccup-lag at the end, making the whole thing sound like some kind of childish code. She feels impossibly self-conscious standing out here on Will's front porch, freezing off the tip of her nose and bearing unasked-for groceries. The argument in her head is the same one that's trailed her all afternoon.

It's ridiculous that she drove all the way out here.

It's not. She's his friend.

Friends do favors for one another, offer assistance where they can. It doesn't have to mean anything more than that. Not insinuative, not inappropriate. Will's intelligent enough to separate the emotions from it to see it for what it is. Just a friend, helping out another friend.

His car's in the driveway, covered by a blanket of snow. Here, then; though with Will it's not always safe to simply assume. She tells herself that she doesn't truly expect to see him when she throws a glance over her shoulder at the silent white fields. But still she's unable to stop herself from doing it.

He's not wandering in the snow – at least not as far as she can see – and from the porch she's got visibility a good distance in most every direction. No reason that he should be, and of course she didn't think so. Alana turns back to the house, knocks again.

The dogs sniff at the door. They don't bark; she's been here enough for them to recognize her as friend over foe. _Friend. Just one friend checking in on another._ "Hi guys. Where is he?" she asks them through the wood. "Go get him. Tell him I'm here."

She hears the sound of tails thumping on floorboards as they sit expectantly one by one on the other side of the door. Waiting for her to open it, to let herself in. Alana readjusts the bag gripped in her hand, the one hanging off her arm. She wraps her fingers around the doorknob and glances about for something that might be hiding a key, debating whether the implicit invitation from Will's roommates is enough of a justification to enter.

He could be sleeping, and she doesn't want to wake him. But she's driven the long distance already, and the whole point was to stock his kitchen with groceries. If she lets herself in and out, putting them away before he realizes that she's been here, it could save both of them a lot of awkwardness.

He could also be in the shower. And then things could get far more awkward. Quickly.

One of the dogs begins whining, a low moan that swells and fades in time with its breath. Another joins in – one of the little ones – with a high-pitched stuttered squeaking that makes her think of rubber against metal. The disjointed harmony tickles across the back of her neck; it's as if they're trying to tell her something. Foolish, maybe. But Will's still not answering his door.

In the end, it's gravity that makes the decision for her. A delegation of her weight from her left leg to her right, and the knob twists under the shift of her fingers. Not a lot, but enough to tell her that it's unlocked. The whining picks up, and she decides that – if the alternate option is to stand out here until she freezes like this, an ice sculpture to be titled _Uninvited Guest_ – it's stupid not to just go inside. Alana cracks the door open, and the space between it and the jamb is crowded with dark canine noses.

"You have to let me in," she tells them, trying to get the door open. They shuffle only far enough out of the way to do so, no farther. She slips sideways through the gap once it's wide enough and closes the door, and the warm air of the house wraps arms around her shoulders. When she turns back to face them, they've surrounded her with a half-circle of fur; she wonders if she's imagining the anxiety jumping between them. Reading in her own.

There's one missing. Winston. He couldn't have gotten past her, big as he is, and the absence stands out sharply. Alana glances toward the stairs, expecting to see the dog or Will coming down to find out why the door had opened. The stairs remain empty, the house quiet save the chorus of canine breathing.

She pushes through a weak point in the arc, a tiny mass of black and white. Steps over the top of his head, and he topples backward trying to follow the sole of her shoe. The pack falls in line behind her, the little dog scrambling to up onto its paws to join them. Alana leads the parade into the kitchen; with every step the air grows stuffier, less of an embrace and more of a smothering. She sets the two bags on the counter with her purse and opens the kitchen window.

They're all looking up at her in anticipation; it's possible they think she's brought them a snack. It feels like more, though, like they're still waiting for her to do something. If nothing else, she should probably try to track down the one that's missing. Maybe Will's outside with him.

In the snow. At least two miles from the house.

She can't hear water running, but she's never been here before when he was showering so she's not certain that she'd be able to if this is the case. The dogs at the rear of the group move restlessly in and out of the kitchen door, into the living room and back. Alana watches them from the corner of her eye as she begins unpacking one of the bags. Real or imagined, their agitation itches at her.

She can't stand it for very long; the canned soups in her hands are abandoned on the counter. Alana goes back out into the living room, stands for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. She feels like an intruder as she begins to climb them, but she seems to at least have the dogs' support. They wag at her from the bottom, like they're urging her on. Her own personal drooling cheerleaders.

She finds the two of them together as she'd suspected she would. Though she hadn't envisioned this picture, with Will coiled into knots on the bed and Winston a tight ball behind the backs of his bent knees. It doesn't seem as if the dog's body should be able to wind itself so small. Winston lifts his head to track her when she enters the room but otherwise doesn't move, and the rest of them pile in through the doorway around her legs, settling into their various spots on the floor.

Will's trembling, his shirt and sheets drenched with sweat; his arms are crossed over his chest with his hands gripping his shoulders, a straightjacket of his own making. She takes a few steps closer to the bed, and he stirs when her shoe creaks a loose board. He opens his eyes; they roll blearily around the room to locate her before the lids flutter closed again.

"'… are you here?" he asks into his pillow, and were it almost anyone but Will she might guess that he's simply dropped the first word – _why_ – in his languor. But it feels different, somehow. Like he's asking exactly what he wants to know.

"I am," she assures him, and it's in her smoothest soothing therapist voice. Alana takes another step, careful to keep her cringing internal even if he's not looking. She hates when she catches herself using that tone with him. The dogs seem unhappy as she weaves her way through them, their eyes jumping over the walls. Between her and the bed.

"Oh." It sounds like he doesn't really have the energy to care either way. His eyebrows pull together in a frown, a complete picture of his confused expression though she can only see half of his face. "Um… why?" he asks in a small voice. As if he's afraid that maybe he's forgotten the answer, that he should already know.

"I came to see how you were. You look terrible." This sounds more honest, at least. Unmodulated. More like a friend, if not very friendly.

"Stupid cold. Nasty. You should stay away from me," he murmurs, burrowing into the blankets. Shivering still, with his hair plastered into flat curls across his forehead. As soaked as the rest of him. Behind his knees, Winston shifts when Will tugs at the comforter but still doesn't get up.

"Have you been to see a doctor?" She tries to recall the last time she'd run into him on campus. Yesterday? The day before? All she knows for certain is that when she'd come up for air between appointments and gone to look for him today, she'd been told he'd called to have his lecture covered.

"See lots of doctors. You're a doctor."

"You know what I mean, Will." She hopes that he does. He's clearly running a fever.

"They'll tell me to rest." She thinks that she can hear his teeth clattering together between the words. "M'resting."

Now the strangeness of her presence in his bedroom seems to finally begin to sink in, and Will struggles to liberate his head from the sodden cocoon. He makes a half-hearted attempt to twist enough to squint at the clock on the nightstand. "What day is it?" He peers at her, and she wonders how well he can see her without his glasses. "Why are you here? Were we supposed to…? Does Jack…?" The questions go nowhere, lost in the wheezing from his lungs as he attempts to sit up.

"You're not supposed to do anything. I just wanted to make sure you were okay," Alana says. "I'm sorry – the door was open. When you didn't answer, I let myself in."

It sounds even less of a justification when it's stated aloud, but he doesn't have a comment; he's slumped against the wall, panting like he's one of the dogs. Winston whimpers, but Will can't reach him in this new position. When he stretches out a hand, the big dog uncurls himself and inches up the bed on his belly to be able to nuzzle Will's fingers. "What day is it?" he asks again, rubbing roughly at an eye while the other hand gently strokes the top of the dog's head.

"Thursday. Why, what day do you think it is?"

"I have no idea. I'm not even entirely sure where I am." Alana's eyes are on the dog, but this snaps them back to Will. He notices, flinches and drops the hand scrubbing at his face. "Sorry. That was, uh, supposed to be a joke." He looks out the window beside him. "Mostly. Is it snowing?"

"Probably." She studies the side of his face in the pale light coming in through the windows, trying to gauge the severity of the fever by the flush at his cheekbones. The only color to the wan wash of his skin, other than the purple smudges under his eyes. "A storm's on the way. I brought groceries. Figured you hadn't felt like shopping, wasn't sure you had enough supplies. They say it's going to be bad."

"You didn't have to do that," he tells the glass panes, the front yard. He presses his lips together around a cough; it rattles his shoulders as he tries to suppress it, briefly fogs the bit of the window nearest to his nose.

"I know. I wanted to." She's accustomed to having conversations with his profile. "I should go put some things away."

"No…" Will shakes his head, glances toward her. Back to the window. "No, I can do it. You should go, before you get stuck here."

He rubs at his eyes again, gets out from under the blankets to put his bare feet on the floor. Every motion is sluggish, uncomfortable, and the change in position starts him coughing hard enough to leave him bent over gasping for breath. The back of his shirt is as wet as the front, glued to the length of his spine to detail the individual vertebrae. Alana thinks he's lost weight. Hasn't been eating.

Winston rests his head on the rumpled sheets between his paws. He whines at Will's back.

"I've got a little time," she says. Will's head comes up sharply, like he'd somehow forgotten she was here. "I don't mind. Why don't I take care of that, while you find something dry to change into. Have you taken your temperature? I'm worried about that fever."

Will blinks up at her, and Alana replays the words in her head to try and determine what part might not have made sense. He looks down at the front of his shirt. "No, this… this is normal." He plucks at the damp cotton with his fingers. Sniffs under his collar and makes a face. "Though I usually don't have company when I'm this disgusting."

"It's _normal_ for you to sweat through your sheets?" She instantly wishes he hadn't said anything; embarrassment flickers around Will's eyes, his lips.

He uses both hands against the mattress to push himself to his feet. "I should shower." It's directed to the floor, muttered. He sways when he takes the first step, and he has to catch himself on the edge of the nightstand. The alarm clock and the lamp shimmy when the whole thing wobbles in protest. "Let me find my wallet," he says, his eyes closed. His chin nearly touches his chest, and he's still shivering as the sweat meets the chill in the room. "How much do I owe you for the groceries?"

"Will…" Alan's not entirely sure what she wants to say. "We can figure it out later." She closes the last of the distance between them. His eyes fly open when she pulls off one of her gloves and presses her hand lightly to the side of his neck; they hold her gaze for a heartbeat, before his focus falls to her cheekbone. His skin's burning under her palm, and the room smells of sweat and sickness. She frowns. "Do you have a thermometer?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. It doesn't matter." He won't meet her eyes again.

She drops her hand, removes the other glove and shoves them both into a pocket of her coat. "Clean sheets?" she tries. She doesn't want to just leave him here like this.

Another shrug. Will sits back down on the edge of the bed, his hand finding the fur behind Winston's ears. "I'll just get a towel." The resignation in his voice tells her that he hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that this is normal. She wonders how often it happens. "It's fine," he says to his feet.

It doesn't feel fine, but she has no desire to force the discussion right now. Will looks miserable. More vulnerable than usual, and Alana's suddenly struck by the reminder that she's in his bedroom. The core of his personal space. "I'm going to put some things away," she says. Wanting to give them both a little separation. Even with the knowledge that they're surrounded by acres of empty land, the inside of the house narrows abruptly claustrophobic.

He doesn't say anything else, and Alana returns to the kitchen; the dogs split their sentry duty with unspoken organization, half following her downstairs while the others remain behind. In just the short time she's been gone the breeze has lowered the temperature dramatically, lightening the oppressive air, and she pulls the window closed. After a few minutes of trying to work out the layout of Will's cabinets, she hears the shower start upstairs.

She debates going back up and changing the sheets, reminds herself that he's an adult and can do it himself. Will raises a protectiveness in her, one that she often has to fight not to be overwhelmed by when she's around him. Yet another reason on the sprawling list of why they'd never work together. She doesn't want to be his mother.

Alana looks out over the snowy expanse as she passes back and forth in front of the window, speculating on what it would be like to live so isolated. A paradise and a prison. A freedom from the influences and demands of others, but with nothing to distract you from falling into the trap of your own mind should it turn against you. It's probably not very healthy for Will to be living out here like this.

Not the first time she's had this thought. She knows it's not her decision to make.

She has to guess where to put most of the items, though it's all nonperishable with the exception of the bananas. She assumes that he'll rearrange it if he wants to; she just hopes that he eats some of it. The shower cuts off, and his footsteps cross the ceiling above her head. A ragged coughing floats through the plaster, deep and unpleasant and going on for far too long.

Alana tracks Will's progress down the stairs, toward the kitchen. Mimicked and amplified by the echo of chattering canine nails across the hardwood in his wake. He appears in the doorway – still barefoot but finally dressed for the day, despite it being now well after four – his hair dripping like he'd barely taken the time to towel it off. Will enters the kitchen tentatively, as if he's the one invading her home. Crosses to the table and sits, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

The late comers find places on the floor around the legs of the table, Winston claiming the spot beside the chair as if it's been reserved for him. Alana watches a bead of water free itself from Will's hair to trickle a path over the back of his neck. "Can I get you something?" she asks. As if she belongs here.

"Coffee." Will starts to lift his head. "I'll…"

"Coffee sounds great," Alana says. It bounces around the room brightly, artificial in the dying afternoon light. "I can make it."

The grinder hums under her fingers as it pulverizes the beans; the noise fills up the kitchen. "I need to bring in some firewood," Will says, when it shuts off. He's staring out of the kitchen window. It doesn't really sound as if he's speaking to her. "Before it gets worse."

"Do you want me to –?"

Will throws her a somewhat annoyed look; he gets to his feet, and all of the dogs rise with him. "I've got it." He pads out of the room with his entourage, and Alana forces herself not to remind him to put on shoes.

She should go home, before the storm really hits. It'll be dark soon, making the trip even more of a hassle. She's alone in the kitchen now, the dogs all having accompanied Will outside. Alana can see a couple of them through the window, darting about in the fat falling flurries, but not Winston or Will. The brewing coffee gurgles in the quiet.

The expedition seems to take more time than it should, and Alana's coloring in mental details of Will face down in the snow when she hears the front door open. There's stomping boots and the tumbling of wood against wood, and the noises of animal life swirling into the house on the lips of the whispering wind. She tries to compose her expression into something with less concern before Will arrives in the kitchen.

When he does he heads directly for the table, collapsing into the chair again as if he's incapable of making it any farther than this. Alana has just enough time to note the pink tinge to his cheeks, the tip of his nose, before he buries his face in his hands. The coffee hisses and spits into the pot as it evaporates the last of the water.

"You really don't look well," she says, though she doesn't know why. It isn't particularly helpful.

"I don't feel well," Will mumbles into his hands. It's an accident of honesty; he immediately attempts to correct himself. "I'll be fine." The hands slide up into his hair, and he scratches furiously at his scalp. It looks like he's trying to wake himself up, though she can't really judge the success of this when she can't see his eyes. They're roaming the empty table top. "Have you talked to Jack? I was supposed to meet him… today? What day is it?"

She tells herself it means nothing that it's the third time he's asked this. Will's usually scattered, usually half somewhere else.

"Thursday." Alana finds two mugs, fills them both. She sets one down on the table in front of him. "Drink some coffee," she tells him, when he only blinks at it.

"I should call him," Will says to the steam wafting up from the mug. Now he looks up at her. "You were leaving. Weren't you leaving?"

Alana blows on her own coffee before taking a sip; the liquid warms its way down her throat. "No wonder you don't get many guests." Will winces, and she regrets teasing him. "I thought I'd have a cup or two of your coffee first. Wake up a little for the drive back. But if you want me to go…"

"No. No, of course not. I didn't mean…" He drops his head back into his palms, his elbows on the table framing the mug. He's wearing an old grey sweater, stretched and pilled and darned more than once. It looks soft. "You don't want to get caught out here. Sometimes it takes a while before they get around to clearing these roads."

"I've got it, Will. You don't want to have a slumber party."

He laughs, a humorless puff of air. "You're right. This is probably why I never have guests."

His shoulders relax a little, and Alana realizes how tense she's gotten only when her own do the same. Eventually Will pries his hands away from his face to wrap them around the coffee cup; they both study the curves of his fingers around the ceramic contours. It's too easy to get pulled into his world when she's in his house. Breathing his air.

She makes herself look away – to her shoes, the dogs, her coffee – and takes another sip to break the spell. She should go, now. Before she can't. "Why are you meeting with Jack?" she asks instead. It sounds all professional curiosity, stable footing where she can balance long enough to find herself again. In Alana's mind, her psychiatrist self offers up a few words of cool approval.

"Um… maybe a new lead on the Ripper?" He might be searching for confirmation, but if he is she doesn't have it. Will hasn't raised the mug off the table; his right hand leaves its warmth to dig fingertips into his temple. "A witness. Possibly. From one of the old murders."

"After all this time? Where's this witness been?"

"In a coma, apparently. Jack wants me to drive out there with him. He's in the hospital, a nursing home, something… Do you see a bottle of aspirin anywhere?"

"No, sorry. You have a headache?" Aspirin wouldn't hurt with the fever, either. Alana glances around the room again, opens a couple of cabinets despite not having seen it in any of them earlier.

"I always have a headache," Will murmurs. His eyes are closed, fingers tracing patterns into his skin.

It's not that she hasn't suspected this – certainly nearly every time she sees him these days it seems he's swallowing at least one handful of the over-the-counter painkillers – but it's jarring to hear him state it so baldly. As if it's not a problem. As if it's yet another thing he's simply resigned himself to. "You should go back to bed."

"That feels as if it deserves some kind of flippant response," Will says. He lowers his forehead to the chipped varnish. "Give me a minute."

"Don't bother. Men always think they're so clever on the subject, but rarely can they come up with anything original. I'm sure that whatever it is, I've already heard it."

He lifts his head just enough to peek up at her. "You're lumping me in with the general male population? I'm not sure if I should be offended or flattered."

"You should be sleeping."

His eyes flick from hers to a spot over her shoulder; Will sits up abruptly, with a screech of the chair legs on the floor, staring past her through the window. Alana looks too, but all she can find out there are whipping snow flakes and lengthening shadows. He's fixated on _something_ , though. When she turns back to ask him, she can see that – whatever it is – it terrifies him.

"Will?"

He sucks in a sharp breath; it barks its way up out of his throat again in a fractured cough. "Sorry... were you saying something?" Will sniffs, wipes the back of his hand under his nose. "Was _I_ saying something?"

Alana doesn't see any tissues, so she tears a few paper towels off the roll on the counter and slides them across the table to him. He doesn't thank her, but she's grown accustomed to his frequent lack of polite conventions. She doesn't expect them, and she rarely misses their absence.

She's getting used to this disturbing fading in and out too. Except that it seems to be happening more often lately, and it makes her a lot more uncomfortable than his poor social skills. She should compare observations with Hannibal, get his opinion. As a friend. See if he's noticed anything.

Will looks exhausted though he's just gotten up, and she opens her mouth with the intention of again trying to convince him to return to bed. But a phone rings – the landline – preventing the probably pointless words. There's a handset mounted on the wall by the door, but he merely looks at it; it rings several more times before he pushes himself up from the table to answer. Alana's almost picked it up herself by the time that he does.

He jabs at the button with a thumb, and walks into the living room as he's holding it up to his ear. She's not trying to listen, but the weather's pressing around the house to erase everything but their indoor world, and his side of the conversation plays as clearly a podcast streaming directly into her headphones. "Yeah, Jack. My –? Battery's probably dead. No. Yes. But –" The dogs stagger their exodus, leaving one by one to reunite again in the other room. "Because there's a _storm_ coming, Jack, and it'll take forever just to get to the city. If you wanted to do it today, you should've called earlier."

It's not a tone people use around Jack Crawford. Not if they wish to keep their jobs, their heads. Will's voice instantly softens. Submissive. Tired. "Sorry. Of course. No, I know you're –" A few muffled coughs. "Yes. A cold. It's… Sure. All right."

There's nothing else. Alana gives him a couple of minutes, but Will doesn't come back into the kitchen. She carries her mug with her into the living room; he's slumped on his sofa, the floor around him covered with rustling settling furry bodies. Winston sits upright by his knees, and Will's got one hand around the phone in his lap and the other resting motionless on top of the dog's head.

He doesn't open his eyes, but his lips twitch into a wry smile when he hears her enter. "Jack's not very happy with me." His nose crinkles; he just gets his arm up in time to sneeze into his elbow.

"It didn't sound like it." The fever's rising again, spattered rosy in random patches on his neck and face. Alana suddenly realizes that it's getting dark quickly in here. "Does he know you weren't at work? That you're sick?"

Will chuckles; it morphs into a coughing fit that sags him even further into the cushions. "I don't think something… something so minor as a cold counts as an excuse in Jack Crawford's book." He pulls his arms in to hug his ribs. "There would need to be hemorrhaging, at least. Maybe not even then."

Alana's certainly not Jack's biggest fan when it comes to most decisions relating to Will. But she hears herself offering a token protest anyway. "I'm sure if he knew –"

"Doesn't matter, he's already pissed. Going tomorrow." Will opens his eyes, and it looks like an effort; they dart about the bits of the room that they can reach without him having to raise his head, settle on the coat rack by the front door. "Would you check my jacket?" He blinks hard a few times – as if he's struggling to clear his vision, and she wonders if his glasses are in there – but he gives up and closes his eyes again. "Aspirin," he clarifies from behind his eyelids.

She wades through the dogs to get to it, finds the bottle and brings it over to him. Before she can offer to get his coffee from the kitchen, Will tosses a few into his mouth and swallows them dry. Alana doesn't miss the fact that there's four of them.

He tries to put the cap back on, but it's a vague effort and he can't manage to line up the plastic threading. Gets it mostly attached, but when the hand holding the bottle falls to the sofa, the cap pops off and aspirin jumps out to scatter across the cushions and dive into the cracks. Will groans, frustrated, and fights to sit up.

Alana sets her mug on the low coffee table and joins the hunt. She hadn't heard any of them hit the floor, but she checks there first just in case. The dogs seem only mildly interested. Even less so when they understand that they're not being given anything. It doesn't take long to collect the pills, despite their attempts at hiding – the bottle had been well-loved and not that full – but she realizes that Will's getting more and more frantic. Plunging his hands repeatedly between the cushions like he might tear the entire sofa apart between them.

"Will? Hey…"

"The dogs... we have to…" He gets to his feet unexpectedly, and the closest dogs in question hurry to move to safer territory. Will yanks the cushion on which he'd been sitting off of the sofa to check beneath it, and fur and dust rain down around them. The middle one is pulled off too, and he looks like he might go for the one Alana's kneeling on top of if she doesn't move fast enough.

She obliges him by standing and removing this last cushion, and there's nothing but the usual fuzzy unidentifiable lumps and small change. "We got them all. See?"

Slowly he nods, but she thinks he still looks doubtful. He concedes to replace the cushions, but first he runs a trembling hand over the fabric underneath each one, as if he can't trust the evidence of his eyes. "I have to make sure," Will mumbles.

"Of course," she says, sitting back down on her corner of the sofa. "And we did. We got them all, your dogs are safe. Right? Will?" She's using that tone with him again.

"Right. Sure." He sinks into the other end of the sofa. Curled in on himself and rubbing at his arms through the sweater, and he seems to be deliberately avoiding looking at something on the opposite side of the living room.

Alana glances that way, but she doesn't see anything. Though, with as dimly lit as it now is, it's difficult even to see Will very well. "I should really go," she tells him. It feels like an abandonment, like there's a lion in the room and she's flipping him a blithe wave and a casual _good luck_ before skipping out of the door. "Can I help with anything before I do?"

"Like what?" He unwinds himself only enough to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Crisis intervention?"

She frowns. "Do you feel like you're in crisis, Will? What's going on?"

He looks up quickly, shakes his head. "No, I was..." Another aborted glance toward the far side of the room. "I'm tired. And you should really go." Something that might be an attempt at a smile flickers over his face as he echoes this in the same cadence that she'd used. But the expression is tiny, lost to the dark.

"Tell me what I can do."

"You can go, Alana." He wavers a little when he stands, rebalances himself with the arm of the sofa. He clicks on a table lamp, but she's unable to decide how much it's about brightening the room versus not having to look at her. "I don't want you to think I'm trying to get rid of you… but I'm trying to get rid of you. For your own sake. It was a nice thing that you did; I'd hate for you to regret it."

The dogs have risen with him, waiting to see what adventure is coming next. She's the only one in the room still sitting. "I don't. Where are you going?"

"Thought I'd make a fire. It probably won't be long before the power cuts out."

The sweater looks too big on him; the sleeves hang down to cover a third of his fingers. He shuffles to the fireplace, and most of the dogs find new places on the floor as it begins to register that he's not actually leaving the house. Alana watches the shifting lines of Will's back as he pokes at the ashes to even them out. She really should take this as her cue to go.

She gets to her feet; he crosses to the sloppily stacked wood that he'd brought in. There's more of it on the floor than in the bin that's designed to hold it, and he has to stoop awkwardly to collect what he wants. "I'll call you tomorrow," she says to him, as she moves to open the front door.

There was going to be more, but whatever else Alana had wanted to say dies when she sees the state of the world outside. It's as if the house has been picked up and sealed inside a snow globe. She knows that the sun should still be up, but it's impossible to tell when she can't see anything beyond the edge of the porch. She doesn't even know if she can find her car.

"No good deed…" Will says behind her.

Close – nearly whispered in her ear – and the shiver that runs through her has nothing to do with the temperature. He's standing just inches from her shoulder, his arms filled with splintered wood; his body heat presses against her as if they're physically connected. He's not looking at her though, but out into the snow. Captivated and motionless.

The storm is an awesome sight. But Alana's having trouble giving it the same appreciation when it means that she's definitely not going anywhere for a while.

Stray flakes are being dragged in to the room, drifting in around their feet on the contradictory wind currents. Will's not even wearing socks. She closes the door, tries to make light of the situation as she turns around. "So… I guess slumber party it is, then. It won't be so bad. We can tell ghost stories. Braid each other's hair."

This earns her a flash of a toothy smile and a moment of eye contact before his focus falls to her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says. "You're probably going to have to stay the night at least."

Alana shrugs. There's little that can be done about it; at least there's no one waiting for her at home. She's glad she'd decided to take the time to change out of her work clothes before she drove out here, though. Her jeans won't be the most comfortable thing to sleep in, but far better than the pencil skirt she'd been wearing on campus earlier. "You warned me. I'm sorry that I just showed up here. That I'm forcing you to be social."

"Easier with some people than others." He doesn't wait for her response to this. Carries the wood to the hearth and begins to make a fire.

Her laptop is in the car, but she doesn't feel like fighting her way out there right now. She'd brought her purse inside; it's in the kitchen, and she goes to get it. When she comes back into the room Will's standing – but only barely – his head buried in the arm that's slung up over the mantle. She drops her purse on the couch and crosses to him, and his entire body flinches under the hand that she rests between his shoulderblades. "Will?"

"Stood up too fast," he mumbles into sleeve and stone. "M'alright."

He's far too warm under her hand, even through the layers he's wearing. "Why don't we sit down?"

Will straightens, shakes his head. It upsets his rocky equilibrium, and Alana's other hand finds his arm when he sways. "Need to feed everybody." Directed to the floor, his eyes closed. She gives his arm a small tug, wanting to get him back to the sofa before his legs collapse beneath him.

But the whole floor is moving now, the dogs having picked up on a keyword they know well. Everybody's up again, crowding in their anticipation. "I can do it," she offers. "If you tell me –"

He shakes his head again, this time a much more cautious motion. The fire builds on itself, gradually raising both the heat and the ambient light. Will licks his lips, opens his eyes; he takes a breath, bracing himself for the task ahead. "I'll do it." He pulls out of Alana's hold tentatively, but seems encouraged when he stays on his feet. His steps grow more confidant the more of them there are. "Do you want something? You probably know better than I do what the options are."

The dogs follow him out of the room; after a moment, so does she. The kitchen's a frenzy of furry activity. But obviously part of a very familiar routine, and the chaos settles quickly into snorting breaths and crunching kibble once everyone's got food in their bowls. Will retrieves his coffee mug, scowls when he has a drink. He throws it into the microwave to warm it back up, and Alana remembers that she's left hers in the living room.

The microwave beeps; the mug's steaming again when he pulls it out, and Will leans against the counter watching the dogs eat while he sips at it. "I'll change the sheets on the bed." It sounds as if he's thinking aloud, not really looking for her input. "You can sleep up there. I'll take the couch… What time is it, anyway?"

This doesn't seem directed toward her either, but Alana checks her watch and provides the answer. "Six-thirty. And I'm not taking your bed. I'll be fine downstairs."

Will blinks at her. His eyes look glassy in the overhead light of the kitchen. "No, I… I don't mind. It's…"

"I _do_ mind. I'm not kicking you out of your own bed when you're not feeling well. And I doubt either of us would enjoy it very much if we tried to share."

He sniffs, rubs at his eyes. "True. When you spend the night in my fantasies, there's a lot less snot." His fingers freeze. "And I said that out loud, didn't I."

Alana's just hoping Will missed her own inadvertent inhalation at the slip. She's got no doubts that there could be something between them; she merely doesn't see how anything between them could possibly be healthy. Part of the reason she's avoided being alone with him is so that they'll never be forced into having this conversation. So she won't have to make any decisions. "Said what? I can't hear anything over all this chewing," she says.

Will's huff of a laugh feels grateful rather than amused. Any conversation is successfully pushed off until another day.

A gust violently rattles the window panes, and they both look that way. The world outside is all weather; there's no visibility through the swirling snow. Will coughs into the sleeve at his elbow, still holding his coffee. The dark liquid sloshes in the mug with the vibrations of his body.

It doesn't take the dogs long to finish eating. Will opens the back door to let them out, and Alana goes into the living room to get her cup. The fire crackles; it's cozy, inviting. There are worse places to have to spend the night. When she returns to the kitchen Will's a shape framed in the doorway against the stormy backdrop, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. Her eyes jump over the tense muscles in his shoulders as she tops off her mug with hot coffee.

The whipping wind shoves itself inside, wet and stinging. She can feel its fingers reaching all the way over here; it must be freezing where Will's standing, practically outside. The dogs begin to trickle back into the house, each entrance announced with a full-body shake down that adds to the accumulating water and sludge piling up across the floor. They prance about in the mess happily – the kitchen filling up with dripping fur and panting breath as more of them come in – but Will doesn't turn around. He's just staring out into the snow.

There's an animal ocean between her and him now; Alana does a quick count to make sure everyone's back inside. "Will…"

Winston butts his head against Will's hip, and he stirs like he's waking up. He turns around, frowning when he sees the mess of the floor. "Towels…" He wanders through the pack and out of the room; Alana moves carefully over a slick path to the door that he'd neglected to shut, glad once again that she'd changed her clothes. Much easier in her boots than her heels. "Stay there," she hears him say to the wet dogs. It's not delivered as much of a command, and they trail after him anyway.

He comes back with the dogs and an armful of cotton towels; Alana snags one to help with the drying off, and most of the rest are relegated to the floor. The two of them crouch together surrounded by Will's motley crew, and she listens to his hampered breathing while sneaking glances at his flushed face. He twists to cough into his arm without stopping what he's doing.

She wants to suggest that she can finish things for him, but based on his reaction to her last few offers of assistance it's clear that she's already been toeing a little too near to overeager already. He's trapped with her for a while; she doesn't want him to feel smothered, get defensive. Be uncomfortable in his own house. He needs to be able to relax, to rest. Like she's not even here.

So she says nothing. The dogs aren't dry – not by any association she has with the word – but are eventually pronounced to be dry enough. Alana bets this is more to do with Will's obviously waning energy than any kind of satisfactory result. They wander away in pairs, seeking somewhere more comfortable to lie down.

He grabs the arm of a chair to pull himself to his feet; it tips, and he ends up on his knees. He looks a little stunned, like he's not fully certain of what just happened.

Alana stands, threads her arms through his and helps him up. She's afraid to let go, honestly, once they make it; Will's eyes drift languidly down to where their arms are intertwined, and he licks his lips again. She realizes he's probably extremely dehydrated. She gets one of her arms free to pull the chair out from the table. He sinks into it without argument, puts his head down.

She finds a glass, fills it from the dispenser in the fridge. Every step across the slushy floor is treacherous, and Alana remembers why she hasn't been ice skating since high school. "Have some water," she says, setting the glass on the table beside his head. "Do you want me to make you some food?" It's asked automatically. So much for not being smothering.

He sits up to drink some of the water. "Help yourself to whatever you want," he murmurs, not answering her question. His fingertips are back to massaging at his temple. "Everything you need should be easy to find."

"Excellent diversion, but remember I'm a professional. You'll have to try harder than that. What sounds good?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, so what sounds the least _un_ appetizing then? When's the last time you ate, Will?"

His hair is damp and shiny again, but it's difficult to say how much of it is melting snow and how much might be sweat. He stares at the glass of water as if it may give him an answer. To anything. "I'm not really hungry. I'll just have some of whatever you make." He gets up from the table, looks a bit surprised when he doesn't crumple to the floor. Though Alana may just be projecting her own expectations. "I need to get some work done," he says.

She doesn't try to fight with him about it, doesn't try to keep him in the kitchen. She isn't very hungry either; it's much earlier than she usually gets home. Alana decides to leave it alone for now. She'll make herself something in an hour or so, and maybe then she can entice him to share.

She does her best to mop up the mess on the floor, using the toe of her boot to nudge the towels into the space under the cabinets. When she carries her coffee mug and the refilled water into the other room, Will's found both his glasses and his computer and there are file folders covering half of the low table. He looks up when she comes in, turns back to the screen.

"There's a TV," he says, gesturing toward some spot across the room. She'd missed it before, covered as it is by an afghan and at least two abandoned coats. "I think it still works." He clicks on something, reads a couple of lines of text before darting a vague glance over the coffee table. "I'm not sure what happened to the remote, though…"

She hands him the water, sits on the other end of the sofa. "Don't worry about it. I've got work too." She can answer emails on her phone, at least, until she decides to venture out to the car. Alana unlaces her boots and slides them off. Wonders if he'll be able to tell if she goes into the bathroom and takes off her bra under the zipped-up hoodie.

An hour, two. The room is a bubble of heat and sound: the fire, the dogs' whimpering dreams, the occasional noises of Will's cold. A background soundtrack that encourages its own subconscious dismissal, and Alana's not sure how much time has passed when she looks up again to find him asleep. A jumble of limbs and breathing through his open mouth, his glasses sliding crooked down his nose.

It's sort of adorable. She's already holding her phone in her hand, and she has to talk herself out of taking a picture.

He doesn't wake up as she stands, stretches. A frown twitches at his face when she slips off his glasses, but his eyes remain closed. She folds the frames and leaves them beside his computer, and goes to grab the afghan that's serving as camouflage for the television. She shakes out most of the dust and a couple of metal bolts before bringing it back and draping it over him.

She's lulled by the peaceful monotony, by the constant hissing of the storm outside. When Will moves again, Alana's dozing. His choked moan rouses her, but it takes a few seconds to recall where she is.

The fire's lower, but the lamp on the side table is on to cast shadows across what little she can see of his face from this angle. There's an unhealthy sheen to his skin; he mumbles something indecipherable and squirms into the far corner of the sofa, and she can see now that he's still sleeping. A nightmare, it looks like – one bad enough to grind his teeth and clench his fists – and when he jerks his head a wet drop flies from his hair to land on the back of her hand.

Another cracked moan, and she shifts across the cushions to narrow the distance between them. She says his name softly, her fingertips barely brushing his sleeve. Will's eyes snap open, and their faces suddenly seem incredibly close; Alana sits back, but wraps her fingers around his forearm for a moment in the hopes of helping to ground him after coming so abruptly out of the dream. He blinks at her. Pulls the arm away before she can slide her hand down to his wrist to check his pulse.

Will's breathing rapidly and unevenly, and his respirations inevitably trip over themselves to set him coughing. He reaches blindly toward the coffee table; Alana picks up the water glass and directs it into his hand. He pulls his legs up onto the sofa and curls around it, alternating between ragged gulps of water and air.

"Are you really here?" It's hardly loud enough to make it out of his corner. "You're not really here."

"A little tip, Will: If you keep calling a girl's existence into question, eventually she's going to start taking it personally." It's intentionally light. Injected with an amusement she doesn't actually feel.

"You left," he insists. He brings the glass up to press it against his forehead. Alana isn't a medical doctor, but she's not at all happy with the moist clogged sound that every breath is dredging up from his lungs. "No, wait…"

"I tried to leave. The storm wouldn't let me, remember?"

He lowers the glass to his lap, drops his head back onto the sofa cushions. "Mm-hmm… snow. Slumber party. 'S hot in here."

She takes the water from him to set it back on the table; Will lifts his head about an inch off the sofa, but gets no further than that. When she rests the back of her fingers against the side of his damp jaw, he leans into her hand. "You're really warm. I'm going to look for a thermometer."

His hand snakes up to grab her arm before she can move, a searing restraining bracelet that encircles her wrist and holds the contact between them. She isn't expecting it, and her fingers flutter against his face. The sensation opens Will's eyes, makes him suddenly aware of the position they're in. He instantly releases his grip. "I…" He tries to shift his head away from her; Alana moves her hand. "Stay," he says, to the arm of the sofa.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He rubs at an eye with the heel of his hand. "About what?" His body language tells her that he knows exactly what. "How I want my hair done?"

It squeezes a laugh from her; she's relieved he remembers that. It has to be a good sign. "If you want."

"I want… I don't know what I want." Will stares into the dying fire. "I think I want to go to bed." It's barely more than a sigh. "I'm sorry. Do you mind?"

"Of course not. You need to sleep."

"Yeah. I just wish that thought was more appealing." The dogs are all awake now, waiting to see what's going on. When Will pushes himself to his feet they do the same, one after another. By the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs, they're all with him. "Whatever you need," he says, with an abstract backward wave that seems intended to encompass the entire house. It's a slow progression they make up the stairs.

Alana adds more wood to keep the fire going, finds Will's pots and pans and heats up some soup. She refills the water and takes it upstairs to see if she can tempt him into eating. He's already asleep, sprawled face down on the bed in his underwear.

The comforter is a pile down by his feet, and it's icy when she grabs a handful of it to cover him. Impossible to tell if it's still wet or merely cold, but either way it's of little use. She leaves the glass on the nightstand, goes back downstairs and returns with the afghan from the sofa. He doesn't move, totally undisturbed by her trips in and out of the room. She tries to pretend that it's not unnerving.

She eats some of the soup while sitting alone at the kitchen table; there's not much of a view out of the window. She has to go through most of his meager tupperware collection before she can match a base to a lid to store the leftovers. The quiet rings in her ears below the noise of the wind.

The storm and the silence skew her impression of time, and after she's rescheduled her morning appointments she's ready to sleep herself. She wishes she could plug in her phone, but she didn't bring her charger. Alana thinks about trying the forgotten television, but the sparking of the fire is nice on its own. Warm enough that she doesn't even really need a blanket.

Which is good, because she doesn't know where to find one. She curls up on the sofa and watches the flames dance around in the fireplace.

When Alana opens her eyes again, everything is dark. The smoldering embers in the hearth emit almost no light, and the lack of a glow from the table lamp tells her that the power must have gone off. She's shivering, but for some reason it doesn't feel as if this is what woke her. Alana sits up, her eyes gradually separating space from shadow in the dimness.

There's a whimpering, coming from the front door in more than one voice. They must need to go out. She slides her shoes on without lacing them, grabs one of Will's coats from the rack and pulls open the door. The dogs bolt off the porch and into the snow, with a speed that makes her second-guess letting them go. She has no idea what she's supposed to do if they decide not to come back immediately.

Look for them in the blizzard, probably. Better that than having to tell Will that she'd lost them.

Alana walks to the edge of the porch, hoping to spot them. It's still storming, but they've gotten enough of a break in the weather that she can make out the shape of her buried car next to Will's. And the dogs just beyond, congregated around something she can't see in the snow. There's a flash of relief at this glimpse of them. Chased away a second later by an inexplicable flooding sour fear.

She's moving that direction before any conscious decision comes to do so, working to convince herself that the panic beating at her ears is completely absurd. They've found a stick. A rabbit. Whatever dogs are interested in. Burying something, digging something up. There's no reason to assume that it's anything else.

Two more steps, and she can see around the back of the car. Can see his dark hair. There's a rush of adrenaline, but no real surprise.

She hurries over the last few feet, through the anxiously milling dogs. Will's on his knees, still in his underwear. His eyes are open, but he's utterly unresponsive to Alana's increasingly worried repetitions of his name. She checks his pulse with numb fingers, cups his jaw to turn his head to get a better look at his pupils. Will's eyelids flutter; she can see awareness returning. She realizes she's kneeling in front of him in the snow.

"Will? Hey… Can you stand up?"

His nostrils flare as he drags air in through his nose. "Alana? What…?" Will pulls his chin away from her, coughing raggedly as he looks around at what little there is to be seen. Obviously disoriented and understandably rattled, the latter growing exponentially with every beat of his heart. "Why are we…?"

The wind is rising again, prickling at her cheeks and tangling through her hair. "Let's go inside, then we can talk. Okay?"

He nods, and together they stumble to their feet. She can hardly see anything, but when Will starts to move – in what Alana is about ninety-five percent certain is completely the wrong direction – she decides that it's her job to lead. She snags Will's short sleeve with her fingers, catches his wandering attention and gets him turned around. Keeps the cars to her right and aims them for the hazy outline of the porch, hoping that it's not an illusion.

Will walks on his own until his foot finds the first of the buried porch stairs; he pitches forward into the bank covering the rest of them, his skin and clothes so pale that he's nearly invisible against the snow. His hair the only bit of color to him, and as they get him back up she's struck with the reality that if it hadn't been for that darkness – for the dogs, for the brief easing of the storm – she might never have found him.

"Almost there." She says it to comfort both of them.

He opens the front door, and the dogs tumble inside around his legs. Alana has to go back and rescue two of the smaller ones from the bottom of the invisible steps. She carries them up to the porch; Will seems stuck, one hand on the door and the other on the frame. Trembling violently, and once she sets the dogs under her arms down she puts a hand between his shoulders to urge him forward.

"Go. Clothes. Blankets," she tells him. There are random creases frozen into the back of his t-shirt, icicles melting off of the ends of his hair.

"All the… are…?" He's drowsy, hypothermic. Drops his arms, but only gets one bare foot over the threshold.

"They're all inside. I counted. Go."

With this confirmation he finally starts moving. Alana's right behind him, but after all the whiteness outside it takes her eyes a while to adjust to the unlit interior. The first thing she registers as they do is that Will's headed not for the stairs but the sofa. "Will, no…"

He lowers himself onto it, tips sideways to lie down. "…'solutely right. M'going. Soon." He pulls his knees up to his chest.

"Will, I need you to get up." She's impressed with how calm this sounds. Patient. She wants to shake him. "Help me. I don't know where anything is."

"Mmm-hmm. 'kay." He obediently straightens his legs, hooks an arm over the back of the sofa and tries to haul himself up to sitting. Alana still has no idea what's going on, but at least he's coherent enough to make an effort. Now she just needs to get him dry. Warm. Then everything else can be sorted out.

Her hand on his other arm helps him to leverage himself to his feet, but his head hangs low and he has to brace himself on the sofa to stay upright through a spate of coughing. She rubs his back, mumbles nonsense.

"M'cold," Will complains, when he can breathe again. Alana's still working to see in the dark, but she thinks that his eyes are closed.

"I know. We're going to fix that. Come on – time to get your blood moving."

Getting upstairs is a challenge, and there's a bite to the air that makes her unwilling to stay up here long. He'd opened a window at some point, and she nudges him toward the dresser while she crosses the room to close it. "Warm clothes. Where do you keep your extra blankets?" Everything on the bed is covered in tiny ice crystals; she has to wrestle with the old window to get the sash all the way down.

"Downstairs." The top drawer of the dresser is ajar, but his hands rest motionless on the folded clothes. Will sniffs, clears his throat. "Sorry, um… what… what am I supposed to be doing?"

"Oh, Will." There's nothing professional about it.

She loads his arms up with sweats and sweaters and socks, everything neat – too neat, and he doesn't see the arc of her eyebrow when she gets a look at the obsessive order imposed on his bureau drawers – all easy to find. He disappears behind the growing pile, shivering but compliant, and when she steers him out of the bedroom his feet follow her direction. The floor's slippery, wet, but Alana ignores it for now and they successfully make it back to the sofa.

The fire's dead, and she leaves him to build up a new one. He's standing in the same spot when she turns back around, still clutching the bundle of clothes. "Get dressed," she reminds him gently. "Unless you need me to –"

It rouses him a little. "No, I'm…" Will's eyes flick up to hers. Away. "I'll…" He shuffles off to the downstairs half-bathroom without coming up with a complete sentence. But he's moving.

She finds the cedar chest containing the stack of worn quilts, though the discovery is bought with a scattering of new bruises and she's not exactly sure what it is that's knocked to the floor when she lifts the lid. Alana hears Will return to the room behind her, drop back down onto the sofa. She scoops up all of the blankets and carries them over to him.

He wraps one around his head and shoulders and burrows into its depths; Alana goes out to the kitchen and grabs one of the room-temperature bottles of water she'd seen in the cabinet. The fire is slowly adding some light to the room, to his features. it looks like he's put on everything that she'd given him, but it's hard to tell clothing from blanket in the jumping illumination. He stares into the fire, at the dogs piled drying in front of it.

She decides that it's best if she sees what she can do about the floor, to give him some time to regroup before she starts pressing him for information. It's a plan that takes all of her restraint. But when she hands him the bottle, he blinks. His eyes meet hers from behind a frown. "You're shivering."

The observation brings it instantly to her attention. The cotton and denim clinging to her curves, her hair heavy and stringy over her ears and against her neck. Stinging in her fingers, her toes inside her damp socks, as circulation begins to renew itself. "Don't worry about me," Alana tries to say. The shivering makes it difficult to form the syllables.

Will struggles to free himself from the quilt, to push up from the sofa. "I'll find you som–" It dissolves into more coughing, derailing the effort. Wheezing, he tries again; it's disturbing how little strength it takes on her part to keep him down. A hand on his shoulder, and she's uncertain which one of them is trembling more.

"I can find something," she assures him, evaluating his pulse, his pupils again. "In a minute." Her fingers are jittery in his hair, belonging to someone else.

"Alana, go." He shifts away from her, further into the sofa and the blanket. "I promise that I'll still be here when you get back."

She hopes it's a promise he can make.

Back upstairs she rummages through the rest of Will's clothes, picks herself a similar outfit. The sweatpants fit strangely, designed for a more angular body, and they constrict and hang loose in annoying places. But they're dry, as is the comfy sweater. The over-sized socks. She adds her bra to the heap of sodden clothing, tosses it all into the tub to be dealt with later. She wants to get back to Will.

Alana grabs a towel from the bathroom for her hair and heads down the stairs. He's a lump of quilts at one end of the sofa, hypnotized by the leaping flames. His eyes are barely open; the water bottle is still sealed in his hand. Not shivering as much though, she thinks. "Are you hungry?" she asks, trying to squeeze the excess water out of her dripping hair. "I can heat up some soup."

The expression that creases Will's face gives her his opinion of this idea. He swallows; his eyes find her where she stands. They trail over her, and Alana feels ridiculous and unattractive in his borrowed clothes. She berates herself for being worried about such trivialities. There are bigger concerns.

"Not really." His voice is hoarse. Scratchy. Sore. "What time is it?"

"I don't know." She sits at the other end of the sofa. "Are you warmer?"

"Mmm-hmm." Will scrubs at an eye with a fist; under all of the blankets, he looks like a little boy. "The power –?"

She clicks the lamp beside her on and off, but nothing changes. "Looks like it's out."

"There are… are…" He sneezes. "Flashlights. Somewhere." A flip of his hand indicates an undeterminable portion of the living room before his knuckles press against the bridge of his nose.

He doesn't say anything else. After a few minutes of nothing but the sounds of the fire and the dogs, Alana speaks up. "You know that this is the part where I ask what happened, right?" Silence. "Will?"

"Would you believe me if I said I don't remember?"

She would. It'll be a while before she can forget that absent look in his eyes when she'd reached him. "You don't remember going outside?"

"Does that make it more or less disturbing?" he mumbles. Talking to the fireplace. "No, I…" He sighs; it twists into a cough at the end. "It seems I've been, um… sleepwalking. A fairly recent and unpleasant development."

"Sleepwalking." Will refuses to look at her. "Does Hannibal know?"

A bark of an unamused laugh from under the quilts. "The first time… You could safely say that I was a little freaked out. Barely waited until dawn before driving over there and waking him up."

"Only natural. I'd be freaked out too." She tamps down on the twinge of hurt at the thought that he hadn't called her; understandable that he'd turn to his psychiatrist with something like this, and she's grateful that Will feels comfortable enough with Hannibal to trust him. "What did he say?"

He shrugs, a shifting of the blankets. "Stress. Garret Jacob Hobbs." He pronounces each bit of the name like it's a complete sentence, its own damning diagnosis.

"But you don't think so? What do you think it is?"

Will tries to clear his throat; his tongue darts out to moisten his lips. "That's probably the preferable option, isn't it?" He picks up the water bottle, fights with the seal on the cap for a minute before it breaks.

"As opposed to…?" Alana can come up with plenty of possibilities on her own. But she wants to know which ones Will's concerned about.

"Seizures?" he suggests. "A tumor?" She doesn't think she's ever heard him working harder to sound nonchalant.

"Scary," she agrees. "Though, in a way, maybe a little reassuring? To have a physical diagnosis rather than a psychological one?"

He pauses, the open bottle almost to his mouth. Turns his head only enough to be able to see her out of the corner of his eye. "I'm starting to feel very… _psychoanalyzed_. Should I be expecting a bill for this?"

Alana doesn't flinch, but it's only because she's had plenty of practice. "I'm concerned. You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to, Will. As long as you're talking to somebody."

The quilt slides off of his hair when he tips his head back to drink, pools around his neck on the cushion like the hood of a cloak. Will rests the base of the water bottle on his thigh, drops his head into the blanket nest behind him and slings his other arm up over his eyes. "Sorry." There's a ghost of a sardonic smile. "I'm not feeling exceptionally social. We can talk about whatever you want."

Maybe she should leave it alone. "Has it been happening a lot?"

"What's 'a lot?' A couple of times. More than enough." He works his jaw around like he's trying to pop his ears. Yawns. His arm falls away from his eyes, and he rolls the back of his head over the sofa to get a look out the window. "Is it morning?"

Her watch reads just after five. "By some people's definition." Alana decides to let him change the subject. The wind howls outside, describing the shape of the house as it scours its sides and angles. "Can I use your computer? I'm thinking I should probably go ahead and reschedule the rest of my day, just in case this keeps up."

The hand holding the bottle gestures toward the table. Will's laptop is password protected; she sets it open between them, facing him so that he can enter the correct combination of numbers and letters. It takes him three attempts. In the deceptive firelight, she isn't certain if his hands are still shaking.

He turns it back toward her and slouches into the blankets. Alana logs into her email account, studying him in her peripheral vision. Will watches the fire. She works as quickly as she can; the battery on the computer's getting low.

"Shit – Jack," Will says suddenly. He tries to untangle himself from the folds of the quilts. "I need to call him."

"It's early. You'll wake him up."

"Might as well give him something concrete to be upset about." He shoves himself up, rocks on his heels and crashes back down onto the sofa. The water splashes out of the open bottle to run down over his hand and into his sleeves. "Or maybe I'll wait," he amends.

She trades with him, the computer for the bottle. "If it were me, I'd just email," she says. "Avoid talking to him all together. Jack's not exactly a morning person."

"Jack's not an anytime person." He frowns at the laptop, his hands moving over the keyboard.

While he's doing that, Alana gets up and goes into the bathroom. Washes her face, combs her hair with her fingers. She returns to the living room to find Will squinting at the screen. He's made no progress; the cursor waits in an empty message box.

"Problem?" she asks, reclaiming her place on the sofa.

He drags a hand through his hair, rubs at his eyes. "I'm, uh, having trouble coming up with anything more mature than 'because I don't wanna.'" A hint of a smile quirks his lips. "Somehow I doubt that will meet Jack's high standards."

"Screw Jack." It slips out, but it briefly widens Will's smile. "He's the head of Behavioral Sciences, and I'd imagine that he watches the news. Let him figure it out. It'll be good practice."

"So unprofessional, Doctor Bloom." He leans forward to set the laptop on the coffee table, grabs the bottle of aspirin. "I like it."

She watches him swallow another handful. "You should eat something."

"You're probably right." He looks no more excited about the thought. No closer to moving anywhere.

"Banana?" she suggests. "Something."

"We both know I'm not very good at this. But it seems like I should be asking you."

"Maybe. If you'd invited me over." He isn't looking to see the smile she gives him. "Tell me what you'll eat, and I'll make it."

"You don't have to take care of me," he says to the fire.

"Friends take care of one another, Will. I'd like to think that we're friends."

This gets his attention. "Friends…" It's difficult to separate the emotions, to put a name to them. She's so used to him not making direct eye contact; the intensity there can be a bit overwhelming when he does. But now Will blinks, glances away. "Of course. We're friends." It sounds a little sad.

 _Tired_ , she corrects herself. He sounds _tired_. Inventing more layers to it can only lead down a path she's not ready to walk.

The air in the room is growing close again, piling on itself and headed toward stifling. "Good. Now that we've settled that, what do you want?"

Will shifts, leans forward over his knees and massages the back of his neck. "Do we keep having this conversation? Or is it me?"

"It's not the first time," Alana agrees. "So eat, and we can talk about something else."

"Like?"

She doesn't really know. Every subject that comes to mind feels prickly, almost dangerous. Her gaze wanders over the room. "Like… you never told me that you play the piano."

Will glances toward the instrument filling the corner by the bookshelf. Back to his feet. "Never came up. It's not generally information I lead with." He rubs at his neck again, sniffs. "Wouldn't want to distract from the crazy."

She's got no desire to validate the self-loathing dripping from that remark; her tone is carefully off-handed. "We all have our own brands of crazy. Yours is only more interesting than some."

"So I should start throwing it in? Add another layer?" Winston stands, shakes himself and moves into Will's reach. It begins a stirring through the rest of them, a ripple of fanged yawns and short claws searching for purchase on the floor. Will's hand falls to Winston's fur.

"Depends. How good are you?" He shrugs, looking at Winston rather than her. "Forced lessons in childhood?" she guesses.

"Not exactly." Another glance over his shoulder toward the thing, as if it may interrupt to speak on its own behalf. "A… a childless woman briefly determined to nurture a motherless boy." Will turns back to the dog. "I inherited it. I don't really play."

It's hard for her to get a good read on him, to unravel illness and exhaustion from emotion. "Then maybe don't lead with it," Alana says lightly. She tries to stop her mind from spinning supposition, automatically filling in details she doesn't have to extrapolate imagined influences and effects on his adult psyche. It's just a piano. At least for right now.

She's not his psychiatrist. She doesn't want to be his psychiatrist. She doesn't even know if she wants to be –

Alana abruptly severs this line of thought. She's his _friend_. Bottom line, black and white. It's nowhere near as basic as that, but it seems the simplest way to get through this confinement. Not to go digging around in either of their heads.

Will pushes himself to his feet; the movement is far from a fluid one, but he stays upright. "Where are you going?" she asks, watching the dogs copy the action like a mute game of Simon Says. "I really don't mind –"

"They're probably hungry," he explains. She suspects that this is usually the case. The dogs trail him to the kitchen; Alana wonders if she'll be out of here before their dinner.

It makes her think of the last time they did this, and she knows that the dogs are going to be no less wet when they return from outside. It reminds her that half of the living room is still a collection of shallow puddles. "Do you have any more towels?" she calls toward the kitchen. "The floor's a mess out here."

"Don't worry about it," she thinks he says; it's not very loud over the noise of the wind. "I'm not." He sneezes. Once. Twice, and now she hears him blowing his nose. His voice gathers a little volume. "There's a cabinet. By the stairs." Another sneeze. "You could check if there's anything left for the dogs."

Alana can't see the cabinet until she's directly in front of it, and then it's mostly her fingers that do the work of determining how it opens in all the flickering shadows. There's enough light in here to illuminate the empty shelves, the three thin towels left on the bottom one. Obviously not the favorites, the best; these are clearly last resort towels, the kind you keep around only because they haven't quite disintegrated to a point where you can justify throwing them out. Perfect for floors and animals. It's just too bad that the dogs dramatically outnumber them.

Better than nothing, though; the heat from the fire will have to do the rest. Will's coughing in the other room, a sound pulled from deep in his lungs, and it seems to feed on itself in a perpetual cycle. When she carries the towels into the kitchen he's slumped against the counter, one hand gripping the rounded edge and the other pressed flat to the center of his chest as he struggles to get his breathing under control.

"I really hope you don't catch this," he says between fought-for inhalations. "Trapped here with me and my germs."

There's little that either of them can do to prevent it. "If I do, you can show up unannounced to invade _my_ personal space and generally make a nuisance of yourself. Only fair."

"You're not a nuisance," he tells the curved backs of the feasting dogs. "You're welcome any time. Though I'll understand if this experience leaves you a bit wary of making the drive again."

"I'm not blaming you for the weather, Will. Or for being sick. I chose to drive out here. Not to go when you told me to. You're hardly responsible for the outcome of my questionable decisions."

"No, just the multitude of my own." He runs a hand through his hair, over his face. Straightens up from the counter and lets the dogs out of the house. The storm hurls itself at the open doorway like it's making a concentrated effort, snow seeking its opportunity to finally do battle with the warmth of the kitchen. Optimistic and one-sided, the icy flakes not standing a chance against the heat. It feels like a bleak metaphor for life, and Alana forces herself to look at anything other than them melting across the linoleum floor.

They've learned from their laxity, and this time getting the dogs back inside is more of an intentional, streamlined process. Teamwork corrals the pack into entering individually, and each one gets at least a passing wipe down before escaping by. Alana isn't sure it's that much more successful. The dogs still give a full-body shudder, still track damp paw prints. When Will closes the back door – the snow battering a last protest that makes this more of an undertaking than normal – the towel in her hands is soggy and useless.

Everybody but Winston files out to settle into spots in front of the fire; Will drops the towels he's holding on the floor, plainly uninterested in dealing with them any further. He crosses to the cabinets, begins rooting through one with a cacophony of metal. Winston watches from where he sits by the door.

Will comes up with a stovetop coffee maker, fills it with water from the sink. He's moving sluggishly, seems to be slowing down with every inch. "Do you want some?" It's a murmured offer as he lights the gas stove; he doesn't turn around to make it.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" she asks, studying the weary slope of his shoulders. "You should really be sleeping."

"Surprisingly, I'd rather not."

"Because being awake when you're this miserable is a better alternative?"

"I was going to put whiskey in it. I'm feeling indecisive."

Alana doesn't bother mentioning that it's not yet six in the morning. "Food," she says.

He throws her a backward glance, pulls a banana from the bunch and sets it on the counter. It's his only comment, apparently.

Will watches the stove; Alana and Winston watch Will. The wind jiggles the glass panes in their frame, working to shake them loose. Snow streaks past the window, blurring the world into smeared shades of white and grey. It dampens everything outside, but sharpens the noises of the kitchen. The percolating coffee. Will's labored breathing.

Alana's stomach rumbles, and she claims a banana for herself. If she stops by Hannibal's office tomorrow after her class, maybe she can keep things informal. Have a drink, a conversation. Get his thoughts on this sleepwalking thing without delving too deeply into anything else.

Will's head jerks up suddenly, as if he's heard something.

She listens, but can't pick up anything but the sound of the wind. He looks out of the window. Goes into the living room. Alana follows, and she finds him shoving his feet into a pair of boots waiting by the front door.

"Will?"

"Can't you hear that?" He yanks the door open, peering out into the storm.

"No." Her socks soak up the moisture coating the floor as she crosses the room. "What do you hear?"

He gives her a look that she can only translate as _uncertain_. Turns away and steps out onto the porch. The wind plays with the ends of his hair. "You can't…? It sounds like…"

Alana moves into the doorway to converse with his hunched shoulders. "Like what? Are you sure it's not just the wind?" She hugs herself tightly, already freezing. She wants to grab him by the elbow and drag him back into the house.

He's trying to see through the snow. "Maybe." Will shakes his head, dislodging a layer of frosty white that's forming in his hair. The flakes scramble in to refill the space, to cover the dark curls. When he ducks his head to pinch at his nose, she catches a glint of the ice building in the scruff along his jaw. "I thought…"

She quickly begins to get the impression that he's not going to move on his own. Her socks are already wet; she closes the distance between them and puts a hand on his arm. "Come inside and tell me."

He lifts his head to cast another glance out into the snow, but he must not find whatever he's searching for because he gives her a nod and goes into the house. The dogs swarm him just over the threshold, and she has to fight to get back inside. To coax everybody out of the way so that she can close the door.

Will's staring at nothing, fixated blankly on a nebulous spot somewhere between the wagging tails and the floor. Alana can't decide if it's the fever, or something else. "Do you still hear it?" she asks; there's a faint quiver to her voice that she curses herself for. It sounds too worried, too cautious.

"Mmm," is his noncommittal answer. She's got no idea if this is a yes or a no. He coughs, runs a hand over his face and shrugs out of the coat he'd thrown on. Leaves it in a heap on the floor and collapses onto the sofa with a low groan.

She retrieves the coat, hangs it on the rack by the door; he kicks off his boots, but she lets those lie where they land. The smell of coffee is beginning to overpower the smell of burning wood and damp dog. It's making her hungry. Her stomach gives another growl, and she remembers the bananas.

She goes into the kitchen to get them. Turns off the stove and pours them both a cup of coffee, forgoing the whiskey. When she carries the mugs and bananas into the living room, Will's trying to fight his way out of one of the two sweaters he's wearing. It's a clumsy effort. He's lost in the twisted wool, looks like he may never get free.

He manages it by the time she reaches the sofa, but the exertion triggers more coughing. A ugly noise that seems to go on forever; Alana winces sympathetically, sets the mug on the table and hands him the water bottle instead. He's shaking when he takes it from her, and his sloppy attempt to drink from it sends water trickling down his chin. Will drags a sleeve over his jaw, sags into the cushions. It sounds as if he's working hard to modulate his breathing.

She sits beside him and waits; the fire crackles in the silence. Winston appears from out of nowhere to rest his head in Will's lap, brows shifting as his raised eyes jump over his master.

"I wouldn't have thought it possible," Will rasps, "but I feel like I'm even worse company than usual." His fingers bury themselves in Winston's fur.

Alana drinks her coffee, her eyes tracing the angles of his jaw, the new lines etched into his face. "I forgive you. I didn't exactly come here expecting dinner and a show."

"Still." He sniffs, scratches at the side of his nose. "This must be incredibly… boring."

"Oh, I don't know. You're certainly keeping me on my toes."

Will cringes. He sits up to stretch an arm out for his coffee; Winston tracks the motion, but doesn't move his head from Will's leg. She's glad she'd only filled the mug half way as she watches it wobble in his hand. "A show after all," he mutters bitterly into the cup. He flinches when he takes the first sip. Licks his lips and glares at the coffee.

"Trust me, Will. I'm far from entertained."

She probably shouldn't have said that; he flinches again. "I know," he tells the fireplace. His voice scrapes across her ears, raw and rueful. He gives the coffee another try. "I'm sorry you've had to see any of it."

"I've seen worse." A deliberate verbal shrug, and the truth. "You could cut yourself some slack, you know. You're not feeling well."

His grim chuckle trips up her spine. "No. No, I'm not." It has the sense of something more than superficial agreement. Will sneezes, wipes his nose on his sleeve. Alana gets up and goes into the bathroom. She returns with a roll of toilet paper; she hasn't seen anything more purposeful in the house.

"Do you ever wonder," he asks the flames softly, "if you'd notice if you were losing your mind?"

She settles into the sofa, separating out one of the afghans for herself as she contemplates the question. What it means if he's asking it. "Conventional wisdom has it that if you're aware enough to ask, you're generally still doing all right."

"But?"

"But… you know the inside of your head better than anybody else. If you're being prompted to wonder, there's _something_ out of the ordinary going on."

He still doesn't look at her, but his lips twitch. It's almost a smirk. "Either that's oddly comforting, or I'm a little delirious." Will sighs, presses the heel of his hand to his forehead; Winston lays at his feet. "Maybe both."

Alana takes the coffee mug away from him. "What's going on, Will? You can talk to me. No psychoanalysis, I promise." She can't turn it off. But she can try to keep the words from leaving her mouth.

There's a long pause, and she wonders if he's going to respond at all. Wonders how far – as a friend – she should push. When he speaks, his voice is distant. A TV on in another room. "It's as if... I'm picking up pieces of them. But I can't put them down again. They're being _absorbed_. And…"

"And?" she encourages.

"And pretty soon I'm going to be outnumbered."

It sits heavily between them. Naked and inevitable.

She'd known that this was a horrible idea from the beginning. That there was no peace for him down this road, no way he'd be able to keep from getting too close. She should have fought Jack harder on this. Should have tried to convince Will to quit after Hobbs.

As if she's got a say in any of it. Her dedicated efforts to hold herself distant from Will Graham seem at times to work a little too well.

"Have you talked to Jack about this?" It feels the most neutral thing to say. And an answer Alana's interested in hearing.

He twists his fingers in the blankets. Won't look at her. "Jack… Jack thinks it's important that I keep going."

A flash of anger; she interprets this to mean that he _had_ , and that Jack had swept by it with his customary brusqueness. "Of course he does. You're incredibly useful to him." She wonders how much Will had confessed. What it would take to get Jack to listen.

"You know, you're the second person to suggest that Jack's manipulating me for his own purposes." He wipes away the sweat beading at his hairline.

"Oh?" Will doesn't elaborate. "What do you think?"

"I think… that it doesn't matter. Because he's right." He tries to wiggle out of the second sweater he still wears. It muffles further his already fading voice. "… obligation… help…"

"Not at the expense of your own health, Will." It's sharper than she'd intended it to be, and he finds his way out of the sweater to squint at her in the firelight. He's only wearing a t-shirt now; the skin over his biceps is shiny, slick. A tuft of his hair spikes a dramatic angle. "Your first obligation is to yourself," she tells him. "Not Jack, not the rest of the world."

"Hmm," is all he says. He turns back to the fire, and she gets the distinct sense that the discussion is over. She can't force it forward, not as his friend.

If she'd known that this is to be the last truly coherent conversation that they're going to have for nearly twenty-four hours, she would have made more of an attempt to continue it. Instead she gets up to search for the flashlights he'd mentioned. Will offers vague murmured suggestions from his spot on the sofa as she pokes around in the shadows; her toes squelch together in her wet socks. Eventually she locates the two metal flashlights in a box under a stack of books. Despite having been hidden away, they both still work.

She leaves one with Will, takes the other upstairs to find a new pair of socks. When she returns – avoiding the puddles with the aid of the light – he's typing on the laptop. Alana adds more wood to the fire. Plays the flashlight beam over the bookshelf, seeking something with which to occupy her time.

She's reluctant to sleep. It's morning, after all, even if the usual cues are mostly blanked by the storm. And she wants to keep an eye on Will. To be certain that he stays where he's supposed to.

The shelves are almost completely filled with psychology texts, the majority of which she's read at some point or another. Alana keeps looking; the light glints off the creased spine of a copy of O'Brian's _Master and Commander_. One of the only works of fiction that she sees. She pulls it away from the rest, carries it to the sofa.

"Jack?" she guesses, with a nod toward the open laptop.

"Would you mind reading this before I send it?" Will asks. His fingers slide up under his glasses to rub his eyes. "I'm not entirely sure that it makes sense."

She takes the computer, skims the short email. It feels stilted, like someone else imitating his voice. But all of the words are in the proper order. Alana corrects a couple of typos before handing it back, trying not to be concerned by how many there are. "Sounds fine."

She hasn't checked, but she hopes that the landline is out. Otherwise Jack's probably going to be calling. If she's the one who talks to him, Alana has a feeling that she's going to end up saying something she'll likely regret.

It isn't long before Will drifts off into an uneasy sleep. It's difficult to manage both the flashlight illumination and her coffee while holding the book open comfortably, and she spends as much time stealing glances at him as she does reading the words on the haphazardly brightened pages. His eyelashes flutter, dark against his pale skin. Tics of unexpressed emotions dance about his face.

She can't find the thread of the story, no matter how hard she tries. The dogs are asleep as well; a few of them stir when she goes for more coffee, but no one follows. Outside the kitchen window, the wind seems to be dying down. This may just be wishful thinking.

Even surrounded by all of the audible breathing, Alana's suddenly strikingly lonely.

The hours blend together. She's finally able to start reading the pictures rather than the words of the book, only occasionally distracted by Will murmuring from inside his dreams. She gets another mug of coffee when her eyes start to droop, piles more logs onto the fire when it begins to wane. The stack of wood's dwindling low. She's unsure how far she has to trek through the snow if she needs to gather more.

"Hold still," Will growls. There's a malice to it that she's never before heard from him.

It freezes her where she stands in front of the fire; her brain clarifies that he's still not awake, but it's several moments until she can make herself move. He repeats the demand, slurring the syllables. His eyes roll under his lids.

Will tosses and fidgets against the cushions, and the third time he says the words it sounds a jagged pleading. Alana perches on the edge of the sofa beside him, suppressing a shudder when she unexpectedly thinks of Abigail Hobbs. She reaches for him. His eyes open before she makes the connection.

His face crumples when he focuses on her, a tissue paper mask of anguish. He sucks in a sharp breath and scrambles away. Hits the floor with a thud and a yelp from one of the dogs.

She can't determine who it was. "M'sorry," he mumbles, more than once. "… couldn't stop…" The dogs gradually resettle, Winston being the exception as he starts a snuffling investigation of Will's curls. Will is gasping, doesn't seem to notice. His voice a strangled approximation of itself. "Sorry… m'sorry…"

"Sshhh, it's okay. It was only a dream." She joins him on the floor and tries to move closer; he shrinks in on himself. Winston shuffles out of the way, whimpering. "A dream, Will. It's okay," Alana says again. She forces herself to sit back on her heels, not to touch him.

"… couldn't…" A rough wave of coughing sweeps through him, leaves him with his head on his bent knees. She can hear every breath he drags into his lungs. He wipes his palms across the rug at his sides in a rhythm that feels compulsive. Desperate.

"You were dreaming. You haven't done anything."

It lifts his head a little, and Alana gets a better look at his eyes. Will doesn't look wholly lucid; the recognition of this sends a jolt ricocheting around in her abdomen.

"S'a trick," he decides, lowering his head. His hands continue their path over the fibers of the rug, working to rid themselves of whatever he imagines coats them. "S'okay. Pay for what I did."

"Will, look at me. It's Alana." He rolls his forehead over his knees, a refusal. There's a faint keening hum coming from the back of his throat, and she has to fight to pitch her words level. "Where are you? What do you think is happening?"

"M'here. And you're here. 'Cept you're not. I killed you."

She can't do anything about the reaction that warps her features; she's thankful that he misses it. "Nobody's dead. You're just confused. I'm fine." Maybe, if she keeps talking, she can calm him with the familiarity of her voice. "Look at me. You can see that I'm fine. Will?"

Will wrenches his eyes up to meet hers – almost – and he shows her his palms. "But… your blood… s'all over my hands…"

She grabs his hands in her own; he doesn't pull back, but he deliberately closes his eyes. Swallows. "It's not," she assures him. "You were dreaming. You have a fever." His hands are slippery. He's radiating heat, sweat darkening his t-shirt and weighing down his hair.

"M'sorry." An exhale. "I couldn't stop."

She wants to get him off the floor. To find a thermometer, if he has one, and see how high the fever has gotten. "You haven't done anything. Everything's okay." She isn't sure how to persuade him. If she can. Alana shifts up onto the sofa, tugging at Will's hands. "Come on," she urges. "It's more comfortable up here."

He allows himself to be unfolded from his cramped position, to be pulled up onto the cushions. Reclaiming his hands from her hold, he wraps his arms around his ribs. Trembling. His body as small as he can make it, and perspiration dripping from the ends of his hair.

"S'close," he mumbles. Chokes out a laugh. "S'a good effort. But you're not her… 'lana smells like coconut."

She blinks. Her bodywash. She doesn't really want to think about what she must smell like now. "Because I haven't been home," Alana says. There's probably no point in trying to rationalize with him, but she hopes the normalcy will help.

"Go'way. 'S hot." He attempts to pull off the shirt and toe out of his socks at the same time, and makes little progress with either. She assists in getting the wet cotton up over his head; Will peers at her suspiciously. "Helpful hallucination." The alliteration is clearly amusing. Distracting. "Befuddling, but bizarrely benevolent." He ticks the words off on his fingers, looking pleased.

"Bravo."

He grins at her, genuine and all teeth. Remembers that she's not supposed to be here. He frowns and licks his lips, pressing a palm to his forehead.

The water waits beside his cold coffee; there's an oily opaque look to the liquid in the mug. She hands him the bottle. "Go'way," he repeats, as thanks when he takes it from her.

Alana holds up her hands, a momentary surrender. She goes into the kitchen and finds a glass. Pours herself a few shots of Will's whiskey.

It plods on like this for a while. Will's consciousness melts away only to claw back to the surface at irregular intervals, most of them framed with no more awareness than this first. He remains disoriented, apologetic and convinced that she's dead. That he's killed her. When he sleeps, she wonders if he's still dreaming of it. How often he does.

He insists that she leave him alone, and she's not sure if he's addressing her or her ghost. He demands she deliver a message to Hobbs, and she's not sure if he means in his head or in the afterlife. He tells her he's sorry. She's never heard him use the word so many times.

She misses him, even as he's sitting in front of her.

Alana eats, pretends to read. Night falls; her watch assures her of this, even if her body has lost all sense of a schedule. She has to work to remember how long she's been here. It's beginning to feel a bit like forever.

Despite her resolution to stay awake, eventually she drifts off hunched into her corner of the sofa. She wakes to the sound of Will coughing. He's a blurry figure moving toward the fireplace; she blinks him into focus as he throws in the last of the wood.

"Good morning," she tries, pleased to seem him up.

It startles him; he has to catch himself with a hand on the mantle. "Stopped snowing," he mumbles. He's pulled one of his sweaters back on. She wonders how long he's been awake. "We're going to have to dig out your car."

Not an exciting prospect. "Trying to get rid of me already?" Alana sits up, tries to smooth down her hair. "Feeling better?"

"If I was, I'd be trying to get you to stay." A murmur. One she doesn't have to respond to because now he speaks again. "Um, yeah. Better. Clearer. Not as hot." This is louder, directed toward the fire. His voice bounces off the brick to rebound back to her.

"Good." She wants to ask him how often he dreams of her death. How many others there are. It's probably just the cold, the fever. She doesn't want to bring it up. "I think any shoveling should wait until after breakfast," she suggests, stretching.

He shrugs, massages the tendons along the back of his neck. "Sure. Let me know when you want to go, and I'll –"

"Stunningly chauvinistic, Will. I can shovel snow as well as anybody else."

He sheepishly glances her way. "And I should probably save my energy for trying to shovel my way out of this conversation."

"Probably," she agrees.

He moves to the coffee table, bends over the laptop and hits a couple of keys. The screen doesn't change. "When did people stop buying calendars?" he grumbles, straightening. "How're you supposed to know what day it is?"

Alana realizes that she's not entirely certain either. Her phone's dead too; the only information her watch will provide is that it's half past seven. "Saturday?" she guesses. It doesn't sound particularly confidant.

"If you're asking me, we're both in trouble," Will says.

"Saturday." She truly hopes so. It means she can go home, shower. Sleep in her own bed.

He scrubs at his eyes and drops onto the sofa at the far end. "Okay. I'm still not feeling exceptionally coherent. Let's go with your answer."

It's miles from the delirium of earlier. She doesn't mention this. "Great. What do I win?"

"The day off." He pulls a blanket over his shoulders. Closes his eyes. "A chance to escape."

She pictures her apartment, the smells and sensations of her own space. Not that she feels overly attached to the place; she's rarely there. But it's an enticing fantasy of familiarity right now. She can't deny it. She wants to go home.

Will looks as if he might doze off. Still, she's hesitant to leave him. Another hour. Another hour, and she'll go out and unbury her car. "Breakfast. What can I make you?"

"Coffee," he says. She almost hurls a pillow at his head.

 **end.**

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 **End Notes:** I would very much like to hear what all of you think. But I'm quite far behind, have yet to see the finale of s1 or anything beyond it. So please, no spoilers.


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